Aching
by katydidit
Summary: "Surely this isn't your first headache, Sherlock." The idea was preposterous. How many people got through life without ever having a headache, even once? Johnlocky. It comes and goes.


AN: This is my first Sherlock story, and very possibly my first attempt at a story for any reality-based fandom set in a country/culture other than Amurrica. (Doctor Who doesn't count for me, because of all the lovely hand-wavey options.) As such, if you spot any glaring errors in this, please let me know right away so I can arrange for a flogging. Or...just fix things. I also haven't decided on whether I'll continue this-after all, it would only be fair to give Sherlock the chance to return the favor, but we'll see if any inspiration strikes. So with that said, please, I hope you enjoy this story!

It was beautiful.

Glorious.

Sublime.

The flat was empty. There did not appear to be any new experiments sitting on the table in the kitchen, no severed head or bodily fluids congealing in the refrigerator. There was, however, a newspaper, several days old, scattered in front of the fireplace, and what appeared to be two centimeters of cold tea staining the bottom of a mug on the coffee table, not to mention all the various bits and bobs that he'd mistaken for clutter when he'd first moved in.

Well, not mistaken, really, because it really was all clutter.

John toed his shoes off just inside the doorway, chafing his hands together to warm them and enjoying the beautiful, beautiful silence. Ever since he'd taken up residence in 221b Baker Street, he had found solitude becoming rarer and rarer, pushed aside in favor of dashing out the door on Sherlock's swishy coattails, chasing murderers and psychopaths and the rest of the dregs of society. He dropped onto the sofa with a sigh, looking around at the room once again. After a moment or two, he leaned back against the cushions and allowed his eyes to slip closed. After another moment or two, he opened his eyes again and studied the ceiling, fighting the urge to curse.

It was boring.

Dull.

Empty.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John found himself muttering as he rose to his feet. He'd never required this level of stimulation before. Oh, he loved the thrill of a patient come to hospital bleeding and screaming for help, of running and ducking in the sands of Afghanistan—it was why he was a doctor and a soldier, after all. But before all this, John was also perfectly content to come home at the end of the day and drink some tea and eat a biscuit. And now he couldn't bring himself to sit still for—he checked his watch—three minutes? Of all the bad habits to pick up from his flatmate.

John rubbed the back of his neck, casting about for something to do. Tea. He could make some tea, though that would require more standing around while he waited for the kettle to boil. The place could always do with a bit of cleaning, but he'd rather be bored than be forced to clean up after Sherlock. At least the man had managed to get his coat on the hook this time, he mused, and ambled into the kitchen for another look around. A moment or two later (which made him all the more aware that Sherlock would have immediately picked up on every detail of the room, and not just the abundance of clutter and scarcity of sound), John realized what he'd seen.

If Sherlock's coat was here, then it seemed very reasonable to assume that Sherlock's person was also here. The man was crazy, but he wasn't suicidal. It was freezing outside—had been all week—and John was sure that even if Sherlock had been deep thought, brooding over the little clues left all over a crime scene, the bitter wind would quickly have reminded him that he was missing a rather important article of clothing. Anyway, the coat was sort of his trademark, whether it was intentional or not. (It probably was. This _was_ Sherlock, after all.)

For a moment, John wondered if he was visiting with Mrs. Hudson, but then remembered that she'd gone away for the weekend (though not without popping in to make sure the two of them were well-stocked with tea and sandwiches, of course). That really only left the bedroom.

The silence of the apartment loomed around him, inexplicably changing from peaceful to ominous. If John was feeling understimulated at this very moment, Sherlock should almost certainly be bursting with excess energy. Sometimes John envied him his complete and total lack of restraint—not that he'd ever breathe a word of that to anyone. Sherlock was, at times, seemingly cold and distant, and he was no stranger to the border between brusque and rude, but there was still something about the way he functioned in the privacy of their flat. John couldn't quite put a finger on it, but he could hear it bleeding out of Sherlock's violin when he played it at 3 or 4 in the morning. He could see it there behind his calculating stare while he deduced something using two-and-a-half green cotton fibers and a slight indentation in the rug. That something, more than anything else about the man, was what John found himself envying.

But the important thing here was that, if Sherlock was in the flat and the flat was also silent, then it meant Sherlock was either asleep (unlikely at this time of day and point in the case, unless there was a huge breakthrough of some kind), dead, or passed out. John forced the last possibility from his mind. Sherlock prided himself on his brain function, lived for these cases the way other junkies lived for their next fix. Surely he wouldn't have let one high interfere with another...?

Tea and tidiness forgotten, John made his way to Sherlock's room. No light seeped out around the door, and he pushed it open with the tips of his fingers, peering cautiously into the darkness. The curtains had been drawn to block out the harsh sunlight, and the air in here felt cooler than it did in the hallway. A stirring, rustling sound came from the bed, but nothing else. No words rumbled low in his flatmate's throat, no questions or demands that he be left alone.

"Sherlock?" John kept his voice low. The room had the air of illness or pain. "Are you alright?" He knew the other man was awake, because he could feel him looking at him. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he found that he could make out more details: Sherlock was lying on his side, impossibly-long limbs folded up and around himself, creating as close an approximation of the foetal position as a man Sherlock's size could manage. His eyes were open, and sought John's from amid the tangled mess that was at one point his hair.

"I have a headache," came the croaking reply, and, before he could stop himself, John laughed. A man like Sherlock Holmes incapacitated by a headache?

"Thanks, very nice," Sherlock snapped, and pulled his pillow more deeply into the space between his neck and his shoulder. "Excellent bedside manner, Dr. Watson. I'm sure your patients love you. Leave me now."

John stepped closer to the bed, laughter dying in his chest. On the other hand, maybe it made sense for a headache to be one of his weaknesses. He relied so heavily, after all, on his brain and how quickly it could function on a daily basis, so a truly wicked headache could probably take him right out of commission.

"Sorry," John apologized, still keeping his voice low. "I just... Have you taken anything?" Sherlock cracked one eye open just wide enough to give him a glare that seemed a cross between ridicule and offense. John rolled his eyes. "For the headache, I mean. Have you taken anything for the headache?"

The patient buried his face in his pillow, but John could just barely make out a muffled "Too far away."

"What is? The medication's too far away?"

"My brain's dying. Moving makes it worse." The words were still muffled. Heaving a sigh, John turned to leave the room. "Don't go." Much clearer now. John turned to see Sherlock sitting up a bit, pressing the heel of one of his hands to the side of his head. "John, if my head starts to explode, I want a doctor on hand. Don't go?" He looked so young, so uncharacteristically pathetic. John felt the corners of his lips quirking upwards but, fortunately, retained enough control to keep from grinning.

"I'm just going to get you some pills. I'll be back before your head actually explodes."

A noise of resigned disbelief followed John out into the hallway as he went to get the bottle of pills and a glass of water. When he really thought about it, John found that the only strange part about this whole situation was that it didn't happen more often. When Sherlock was on a case, he didn't eat, he rarely slept, and he used those nicotine patches as though they were merely...plasters, or something. He found himself wondering if Sherlock's brain had simply grown used to the abuses, if it possibly even relied on them in order to function properly. As quickly as the thought came, of course, he dismissed it. That simply wasn't how the human brain functioned.

He returned to the bedroom carrying his supplies—the bottle in one hand, the water in another, and two rags (warm and cool) draped over his forearm. He placed everything within reach on the nightstand and, without waiting for an invitation, perched himself on the edge of the bed. Sherlock shifted a bit to make room for him, but said nothing. Fine, then. John relented and reached for the medication.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to sit up to drink this," he said patiently, touching the other man's shoulder. "I don't want you to accidentally drown or something."

"No." He sounded more like a sulky child than a grown-up consulting detective. "My brain will leak right out my ears if I sit up."

"Sherlock, I am a doctor, and I can assure you that that situation is very unlikely to occur. Now come on." He shook him a bit—not enough to aggravate his head, of course, but enough to show that he meant business.

To be honest, he was expecting much more of a fight—more whining, perhaps, and certainly more stubbornness, but instead Sherlock fought his way into a sitting position and accepted both the pill and the water without another word. John tried not to laugh at the way his friend's hair was sticking up on one side. Sherlock took several sips of the water and moved to hand the glass back to John, but was refused.

"Drink it all," John urged. "If you're dehydrated, the water will help the headache just as much as the medication." He was less surprised, now, that Sherlock did as he was told and drained the glass before slumping back to the bed. "Now, does heat or cold work better when you get these things?"

"What?" John could hear the underlying irritation and frustration just under the surface of Sherlock's words, and realized that this headache must really be something, if it was lowering the man's mental processing speed this much.

"When you get headaches, Sherlock, do you use warmth or cold to ease the pain?" He was using his Kind Doctor voice, the one he'd perfected on children on his A&E rotations. He understood, of course, that talking was the last thing Sherlock probably wanted to be doing at this very moment, but he was only trying to help.

"Don't know. Neither." He was hiding his face again.

"Surely this isn't your first headache, Sherlock." The idea was preposterous. How many people got through life without ever having a headache, even once?

"Of course it isn't." The words sounded a bit more like normal—disdainful. "I just don't...do anything, usually. The medicine cabinet is so far away."

John imagined countless scenarios just like the one before him, only in these, Sherlock was lacking a doctor, or even a flatmate. He felt a pang of pity, which was admittedly tempered by incredulity. Why would anyone suffer through something which was so easily cured, he found himself wondering. Without meaning to, he reached to squeeze the back of Sherlock's neck. It was cool to the touch, though clammy with sweat. "Well, since you've been lying here in the cold to no avail, I'll try warm—what?" Something had changed, and quickly. Where before Sherlock's muscles were rigid with pain and tension, he had relaxed a bit, and a moan cut its way past his lips. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Did the pain get worse? Are you—"

"Your hand, John," Sherlock responded after a hesitation. "It...made it better for a moment."

Of course. John smiled to himself and squeezed the man's neck again, gently. He spread his fingers, pressing fingertips into pale flesh, easing them against sinew and bone. "Could be a tension headache, then," he mused as he extended the area he was massaging and slid his hands along Sherlock's shoulders. It occurred to him, after his friend had released a borderline obscene moan of pleasure, that he should possibly feel much more uncomfortable doing this than he actually did. Then again, he was a doctor, and he was giving his patient relief from pain. That was what he did, after all.

"Don't care what it is," came the reply as Sherlock unfolded himself and rolled over so that he was more on his stomach. John responded by adjusting his own position to better reach Sherlock's shoulders. "Jus' don't stop that."

If healthy-Sherlock could see headachey-Sherlock right now, John had the feeling that he would have quite a bit of eyerolling and quipping to do, but he (perhaps wisely) held his tongue. Now was not the time to taunt his friend for his vulnerability.

He'd do that later, after he'd recovered.

Instead, John merely continued his ministrations, soothing taut muscles and hoping that his hands were able to provide sufficient warmth for more lasting relief. Of course there was nothing strange about this, about nearly loving caresses from one flatmate to another—certainly not when one of aforementioned flatmates happened to be a provider of health care and the other happened to be suffering apparently-crippling pain.

"Is this working?" John asked, though the question was pointless. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to read Sherlock's body language—the tension and rigidity had all but left his muscles, and although he had regained enough control over himself to keep from moaning every six seconds, the occasional sigh still escaped his mouth. He simply nodded.

An idea. John weighed it in his mind for a moment, before getting up off of the bed. Sherlock lifted his head to see what was happening, likely trying to decide whether he'd need to ask John to stay longer. He really needn't have worried. John merely moved to the other side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard and stretching his legs out in front of him. "Turn over, Sherlock, and put your head in my lap. Face up, if you wouldn't mind." The words came so effortlessly that it was almost as though they had been spoken by someone else. This position promised to be much more intimate than the previous one, but, John found himself hoping, possibly also more helpful.

"Can't you keep doing the neck thing?" Sherlock's voice was almost a whine, but at least he wasn't hiding in his pillows anymore, which was likely a sign that he was feeling better. "It was working."

"I'll go back to that," John assured him. "But I want to try something else for a while."

"What, you want me to...cuddle with you?" Strangely enough, there was not as much disgust or defiance in the man's tone as John would have expected. He grinned.

"You, of all people, should know that physical contact is necessary for humans, Sherlock. Releases endorphins and other sorts of brain chemicals. It's good for you." Sherlock still hesitated.

"My brain chemicals are just fine," he stated. His voice was matter-of-fact, not full of protest.

"Ten minutes ago you thought your brain was going to leak out your ears."

"I was...altered."

John laughed. "We're not going to cuddle, Sherlock. Your sinuses may be causing you discomfort, and I'd like to do the same for them as I was doing for your neck. Unless you don't need assistance anymore...?" He arched an eyebrow, and Sherlock wordlessly moved into position, adjusting his head only a few times before staring up at John. Intimate, indeed.

"By all means," Sherlock said as they locked gazes. "Continue." With that, his eyes slid closed. John reached for the warm rag. It had been rather hot when he'd first brought it, but had cooled off considerably and was now a much more comfortable temperature. He unfolded it to reveal the insulated inner folds and pressed it to Sherlock's eyes. Another pleasurable sigh, though this marked the first one that John actually felt against his skin. Capable fingers explored angular bone structure, not pressing anywhere in particular but merely stroking the skin, soothing what might have been swollen and irritated membranes. John found himself studying his friend's face beyond what could be called medical evaluation. He found himself committing it to memory, wondering about that tiny pale scar next to Sherlock's left eyebrow (which was so small as to evade notice for all the months they'd been living and working together, but now seemed, inexplicably, to catch what little light was allowed in the room). He found himself appreciating the familiar smooth contours of his cheeks, the strong lines of his eyebrows peeking out above the cloth, softened a bit around the edges by stray hairs that somehow seemed perfect. He found himself following the line of his nose with a finger, tracing it down his upper lip to where that ridiculous cupid's bow sat now as though mocking him. The lips parted.

"I'm reasonably certain there are no sinus cavities there, John," came his voice. Though soft, it rumbled through the silence, across the short divide between them. John could feel his cheeks burning as he realized what he was doing. He was glad, at least, for the rag currently functioning as a makeshift blindfold.

"Yeah?" His voice sounded a bit strangled, so he cleared his throat. "Well, which one of us is the doctor here?" He pressed the rag a bit more firmly against Sherlock's eyes, hoping the warmth would possibly lull him back into distraction.

"Which one of us is the brilliant consulting detective who knows more information about more subjects than the other could possibly comprehend?"

Doubtful. John smirked. "Which one of us is the one who not twenty minutes ago was convinced that his head was literally going to explode?"

Silence. John accepted the victory, but returned his fingers to cheeks and forehead—far away from those lips.

"I've seen it happen before, you know," came Sherlock's voice again. Always had to have the last word. John's only reply was a noncommittal noise as he moved his fingers down around Sherlock's ears, behind them. Sherlock made a noise of his own, though his could hardly be called noncommittal. He turned his head slightly, pressing his left side more firmly against John's fingers. "Harder. Just a bit. Please."

Please? The word seemed strange, but, John mused, stranger things had certainly happened. He complied with his patient's request. Strange how earlier that very afternoon, he'd found himself unable to sit down and relax for more than a couple of minutes, but now he'd spent at least half an hour sitting on a bed with this man. It was simply his doctor's instincts, of course. Nothing more troublesome than that.

"Do you kiss all of your patients?"

The sound, more than the question itself, startled John, and his hands stilled. "What're you talking about? I haven't kissed you yet." Yet. The word was an accident, and John's face burned hot. "At all. That's what I meant to say. I haven't kissed you. Full stop. Are you hallucinating?"

The rag had slid off of Sherlock's eyes, and he was looking up now from beneath eyelashes slightly damp from the water. John missed the blindfold.

"You were looking at my lips. When someone is going to kiss someone, they generally look at that someone's lips." His words were...well, they weren't cool, really, more...steady. Sherlock was being careful not to betray any hint of amusement—or disgust. John shook his head and opened his mouth, searching for a response. "I was only asking because it seems as though that could become rather unsanitary in a hospital setting, and it's been a while since I've been a patient. Just...curious." The corners of his mouth might have twitched into something resembling a smile, but the light was too dark to be certain. His eyes slipped closed. "This is working wonderfully, by the way."

It didn't make sense, but a pleasant little thrill ran through John at the comment, cutting through the awkward embarrassment he'd been feeling just a moment ago. Part of him wanted to tell Sherlock to go back to how he was lying before—on his stomach, with his face (and mouth) hidden in the pillows—but the part of him which was braver guided his hands up to the tangled mess of hair on Sherlock's head. All the nerve endings in a human's scalp could easily be soothed like this, easing the overall tension in a patient. Granted, none of the hospitals he'd even been in or worked in had ever offered massages as headache therapy, but that wasn't really important. He slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tugging only when necessary in order to eliminate a particularly awful knot, and even then, very carefully.

It was only when Sherlock suddenly turned onto his side, burying his face in the warm cabled jumper covering John's belly, that he realized the other man had fallen into what appeared to be a rather comfortable and restful sleep. He didn't bother to try to hide his smile as Sherlock tried folding his knees up to his chest again, looking for all the world as though he were trying to wrap himself around John. One hand remained in the sweat-dampened curls while the other made its way to the man's cheek, where it eventually stilled as John slipped into a drowse himself.

Hours later, he would awaken in the empty room with a stiff neck and back, the smell of late-night takeaway curry for two drifting up the stairs.


End file.
